


fever when you hold me tight

by wastrelwoods



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Aphrodisiacs, Car Sex, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sex Pollen, case fic ....just kidding its about., juno steel might. in some very specific circumstances. be a power bottom. go him!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-29
Updated: 2017-11-29
Packaged: 2019-02-08 07:50:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12860076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wastrelwoods/pseuds/wastrelwoods
Summary: Nureyev makes a slight error in judgement, a heist goes very rapidly south, and the Ruby 7 is there too.





	fever when you hold me tight

**Author's Note:**

> title from little willie john's 'fever', because i don't know if there's anything more conceptually perfect than Weird Fandom Porn set to jazz standards

The vault door slides open with an almost cartoonishly ominous creak, a thin shaft of light darting between Nureyev's feet and into the blackness beyond, illuminating the rusted sheen of the far wall. The thief grins. "Juno, dear, you always take me to the nicest places." 

Beside him, Juno shuffles uncomfortably. "Archer said the codex would be somewhere inside."

Nureyev draws a penlight from his sleeve and clicks it on. The other wall shows the same smooth, dripping rust of irradiated metal as the first, and the ceiling tiling has all but fallen away, revealing the red sandstone beneath. "Did she happen to mention anything else of import?"

"Only that the whole place is booby-trapped to hell and back again," Juno grunts, with a half-nervous laugh. 

"Hm." Peter clicks off the penlight with a huff. He'd surmised as much. Records indicated the Conservationists who built the vault were of an abnormally paranoid bent, and locking themselves under the poison sand for months on end probably did nothing to cure them of it. "It seems I'll be taking the lead, in that case." 

Juno offers him a predictably dour look, and Peter rolls his eyes. "Step only where I step, now, dear," he warns, and pulls a marble from his pocket, rolling it across the floor and into the darkness. 

Somewhere further down the tunnel, there's a sharp snap and a blast of blue flame. Nureyev raises an eyebrow, and shivers with something not unlike anticipation as he plants his foot over the threshold.

Peter Nureyev, master thief of intergalactic renown, is very good at what he does. Being in the business for any length of time at all is impressive simply because there are some businesses where survival is almost a guarantee of unparalleled expertise. It's seldom he sees the chance to have his particular skillset witnessed at all, and much less by someone whose good opinion carries such weight to him as Juno's. And so, as a point of pride, he thinks the universe will forgive him for showing off a little. 

Juno's eyes are wary the first half-a-dozen times Peter ducks nimbly out of the path of a swinging blade or a sudden laser-blast, and then slowly begin to fill with awe as he weaves his way over the tiles, the points of his heels scraping at the dust. He keeps close to the walls, one hand thrown out behind him to keep his balance as he dodges and swerves with grace and the occasional small flourish, dancing between three of the fire-traps in one complicated movement when a series of careful steps might have done just as well. He reaches back to Juno with a look that might be classified as smug on a lesser man, and pulls him through the same motion, spinning him around again at the finish and dipping him for good measure. 

"Idiot," Juno breathes, his heart pounding hard enough that Peter can feel the rhythm of it where they press against each other. Peter grins wider, and resists the urge to kiss him senseless in favor of sealing the moment away to be reopened at a more convenient date. His hungry eyes flick up to the pedestal over Juno's shoulder.

"Oh, hello, you," he says, half to himself, and sets Juno back on his feet to pace closer to the dais. "I've been looking for you everywhere." 

Juno crosses his arms. "It's a damn book, Nureyev."

The steps crumble and creak beneath his feet as he sidles toward the codex, still stepping lightly, and he reaches out to brush his hand over the air an inch from the gold-and-jewel-encrusted surface plate with the appropriate reverence. "Shh, don't listen to him, darling," he says soothingly. "You're beautiful."

"You want me to turn around and give the two of you a little alone time?" Juno asks, his voice heavy with irony, and Peter doesn't have to look back to know he's glaring. 

"These things take care and precision, Juno, love, I'll only be a moment," Peter assures him, pulling on his gloves and procuring a sandbag from the pocket of his coat. 

"You're kidding me." 

"Sometimes the old solutions work best," Peter explains, miming the switch a moment before he implements it. "Crude as they may be." 

The sandbag settles onto the pedestal, and the codex lifts into Peter's gloved hands like it was meant to be there all along. He inhales sharply, running the tip of a finger over the inlaid garnets with a giddy satisfaction. 

"Okay, you've got your book," Juno says impatiently, "Let's get out of here before the radiation melts my damn skin off. Pretty sure I left the car running." 

"Just a moment." His thumb slides over the clasp at the side, unlatching it. "Wouldn't want to bring our Ms. Archer a fake, dear." And he opens the book.

It is, he realizes almost instantly, a terrible miscalculation.

Red dust erupts from the creases between the pages, released by some spring-loaded mechanism too fine for Peter's eyes to catch it. It glitters in the air, a deep, rich color too dark and powdery to pass for sand. The grains of it are dry and bitter on Peter's tongue when he coughs and slams the codex shut again. He wipes at his face with a gloved hand that comes away coated in a thin layer of the dust, and feels it begin to dissolve in his mouth, turning syrupy-sweet, burning as it runs down his throat.

"What the hell was that?" Juno takes a step toward the dais, his eye wide and his jaw set. 

"I don't…know," Peter tells him, hoarse, and then his legs buckle under his own weight and he falls like a house of cards. 

Juno's arms catch him before he's gone too far, and with a heaving groan he's lifted off the ground entirely, slumped against Juno's shoulder. "Nureyev, shit--" 

"I'm fine," he promises, but his tongue is burning in his mouth and his head is starting to spin. "I'll be fine, just let me--catch my breath a moment--" The burning sensation reaches his stomach and Peter gasps, clutching at Juno, fumbling the codex and watching it tumble to the tile floor with a detached horror.

The relic slides over the floor and catches a tripwire that starts the whole vault rumbling around them, and Nureyev can't even bring himself to care because it feels like a fire's started to blaze under his skin, spreading out in waves from his stomach and tingling in his fingers and toes. Juno swears a blue streak and shifts Peter so he's dangling over Juno's shoulder like so much baggage, making a foolhardy run for the door straight down the path in the center of the vault. 

There are sounds and flashes and noises like whirring metal and spitting plasma in Peter's ears, and below that the same low rumbling, and closer than that, the thunder of Juno's heartbeat, and Peter wants--he doesn't quite know. It doesn't make any sense. He thinks he might be shaking. Adrenaline, his head tells him. It's adrenaline, which is perfectly normal, under the circumstances--

Juno's arms tighten around him, and his feet leave the ground in a marvelously executed leap that takes the both of them just past the vault door in time for Peter to watch the walls fold inwards like they're made of paper. More dust kicks up in their wake, this kind the regular coarse Martian orange-brown. 

"Nureyev," Juno is saying again, his voice high and tight, and Peter…he…

God, he doesn't know. It's all so much. He shivers, and groans, and burns and burns and burns. 

Juno piles him into the passenger seat of the Ruby 7, crawling over him and barking at the interface to do something. His shoulders are high and tense and drawn together, and the line of his throat is so beautiful Peter wants to trace it with his teeth, wants to feel Juno's heart pound closer, wants him the way he always wants Juno but with so much of himself at once it feels like the wanting could eat him alive. 

"Ruby," he groans, shifting in his seat, pulling off his dust-stained glove and tossing it in the direction of the glove compartment. "Ruby, analyze sample." 

"Is it some kind of poison?" Juno asks, frantic with worry, while the car's system scans and cross-references, and searches for an answer. Peter lets his head fall back against the seat rest, and notes the way the burning ache has trickled slowly down his spine to the apex of his thighs, feels his heart pounding hard and fast. 

The Ruby beeps at him, loudly, the data printout beginning to fly over the dashboard, phrases like 'Ancient Martian' and 'phenethylamine compound' and 'high concentration' flashing by almost too fast for Peter's eyes to track them. 

"Well," he manages, fighting through the rising haze of dizzy heat. "I suppose I have to…applaud their creativity." 

Juno watches his chest heave, his hands clenched into fists and his jaw tight. "What the hell is it?"

"It's an _aphrodisiac_ ," Peter tells him, with a breathless, raspy laugh, his hands grasping white-knuckled at the armrests, and Juno's whole face falls in shock. 

"You're shitting me." 

"Oh, Juno, believe me, I couldn't lie about this if I wanted to," he pants, shifting his hips up so Juno's eye catches the swell of his dick, tenting his slacks. The fire's still racing under every inch of his skin, a sweet, insistent ache that leaves him breathless and trembling. He palms himself through the fabric and can't hold back a groan at the barest hint of pressure. 

"Jesus, Peter," Juno curses, and Nureyev licks his lips, tastes that cloying sweetness again. Rubbing at himself only seems to feed the fire, makes it burn hotter than before with no sign of relief. Frustrated, Peter groans again, feels sweat trickling down the nape of his neck, the hollow of his back, the divot of his collarbone, the backs of his legs. 

For a moment, it isn't funny anymore, the possibility that there is no end to this, that he'll only burn hotter and hotter until his heart gives out, or he loses his head entirely. Even lying here another moment with Juno staring at him in horrified silence would be unbearable. "I c--I can't, it burns," he pleads, tugging at the collar of his shirt with numb fingers. "Juno." 

"You--" Juno stoops, leaning in closer, his eye wide with fear and dark with something else entirely. "What do you need, Nureyev? Tell me what to do." 

"Touch me," Peter begs him, his voice breaking as Juno's fingers brush under his collar, splaying over his collarbone, an inch to the right of his pounding heart. His other hand closes over Peter's hip, holding him down. Keeping him steady, through the wildfire that's raging inside him. "More, darling. Need your hand." 

Juno complies with his face bare and open, cradling Peter's cheek with one hand and working his slacks open with the other, curling his calloused fingers around Peter, making him tremble and sigh and cry out. Just one touch, and he feels undone, pushing his hips up into Juno's palm. Clutching at his shirt to pull him closer, to hold him there because Peter knows without a doubt that if Juno were to pull away now, to leave him like this, he would run mad. 

His hand twists and pulls with slow, simmering intent, and Peter nearly leans in to kiss him before remembering the dust still staining his lips. He bites down on them, hard, nearly forgets how to drag more air into his burning lungs. The drug's messing with his head, making every little whisper of a touch feel like a laserbolt, like an electric shock, like the kind of force that will leave him in ruins the moment it passes. Juno's grip is firm around him, slicking him with his own precome, tugging and sliding and Peter doesn't even know what. His feet kick aimlessly at the seat, and he muffles a desperate whine into his sleeve. 

"Shit, Nureyev--"

"Yes," Peter gasps, his voice trapped in his own throat, ragged and low and tinged with that syrupy-sweetness that must be lingering on his breath. "Yes, _yes_ , oh, Juno--"

Juno's stroking him fast and steady and deliciously tight, just how he needs it, and every second of it is perfect, so good it almost pains him, hot and sweet and every touch magnified a thousandfold and--and it just builds, on and on, rising without reaching a peak. Pleasure with no plateau in sight. Nureyev's head slams back against the seat in frustration, and his moans turn sharp with anguish. 

"I'm hurting you." Juno's voice is raw, and he pulls away like the fire under Peter's skin has burnt him. "God, Nureyev, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to--"

"No, no," Peter assures him, shining with sweat, tugging Juno close again, down into his lap, and burying his face in the crook of his neck. "Never." 

A little gasp slips between Juno's lips, and Peter feels him press closer, his hips flush with Peter's stomach, where an answering hardness tells him either the fire is beginning to spread or his wanton display has had no small effect on Juno himself. "Tell me what you need," he says again, soft and low and wanting, and Peter groans before running his teeth over the hollow of Juno's neck.

"You, love." He's barely in control of the way his hips hitch up to grind against Juno's ass, only knows the friction makes his toes curl. "I just want you."

Juno's breath is shaky in Peter's ear, and one of his hands comes up to tangle in his hair. "Okay. Yeah."

Peter's too preoccupied with his lips on Juno's throat to be really startled when the Ruby whistles helpfully and clicks open a side compartment near the gear shift. "This goddamn car knows too much," Juno grumbles, leaning away from Peter a moment and returning with lube and a condom in hand. Peter manages a dizzy grin. 

"Thank you, dear," he mumbles, patting the passenger door fondly while Juno struggles to slide his sweatpants down his thighs, flushed with embarrassment. He straddles Peter again and offers him the lube while his tongue darts out to wet his lips. 

Peter takes it gladly, pulls him close and spreads his legs farther with a gentle hand. Juno shivers as Peter's fingers circle his entrance, sucks in a careful breath when they slip inside, sighs when he crooks them just a little and moves, slow and lingering, out and then in again. "Nureyev," Juno murmurs, with another little shiver. "Nureyev, c'mon, I'm not gonna break, okay?" 

"I--" He can't quite hold back a shiver of his own, his skin so tight and hot and his blood boiling and his cock jumping with just the sensation of Juno fucking back against his hand, driving his fingers in deeper. There are a thousand words he wants to say, profanities and praises and inarticulate cries of desperation, but all he can manage is, "Juno," again. 

"Fuck!" Juno shouts, when the tilt of his hips slides Peter's fingers deep enough to brush against his prostate, and Peter watches his face go slack with pleasure, grasps at his leaking cock with his free hand and trembles. "Fuck, Nureyev, that's so good--"

"Juno, please," he hears himself say, and it comes out in a throaty whine, raspy and saccharine and halfway undone, and Juno nods, his thighs quaking, rolling the condom on with unsteady hands while Peter's fingers pull away and leave him empty and loose. 

He leans one arm against the seat, at the side of Peter's head, boxing him in as he lines himself up, and Peter's eyes stay fixed on his face, the high color in his cheeks, the shine of his open mouth, the plane of his bruise-marked throat. Juno rolls his hips down, and Peter feels the fever come close to breaking for the first time. It's good, it's so good, as close to perfect as he's ever known when Juno lifts himself up and drives down again, quick and determined, his hips crashing into Nureyev's. 

Juno's touch still feels like lightning against his burning skin, the exquisite friction sending every rational thought flying from his head, and Peter can feel his back bowing and his toes curling and his thighs tensing while Juno rides him hard, merciless, utterly overwhelming in his onslaught. He's gasping, shouting, begging for more, or perhaps Juno is, moaning as Peter's dick slides over his prostate with every shift of his hips. 

"Nureyev," he hears, feels Juno's forehead press against his own and reaches up to wrap a hand around the nape of his neck, and every shallow breath out of Juno's mouth fans over Peter's face. "Nureyev, god, I'm close, you gotta--"

Peter's been burning so long he doesn't know what will happen when the wick finally runs out, but he reaches for Juno with trembling fingers, slides a fist over his cock and listens as Juno's shallow breaths turn to shaky moans, and then silent gasps. He stills, spilling into Peter's hand, painting his own thighs with splashes of come, tensing around Peter as he shudders through an orgasm. 

Peter strokes him again for good measure as he starts to spin into freefall, pulls Juno close as his hips stutter and his heart pounds in his throat. All that heat blazes through him in one final crescendo before it recedes to nothing, blown away like a promise on the night air, and he slumps back against the sim-leather seat, sore and dizzy and emptied out. 

The sweat's drying tacky on his skin, plastering his shirt to his back. Peter groans softly, his throat dry as bone, and opens his eyes to see Juno leaning over him, his free hand cradling Peter's face. "Hey," he says, with that soft warmth that comes out in his voice every time it drops below a whisper. "Still alive?" 

Peter leans into the touch with a raspy sigh, and drifts a little while Juno pulls away and deals with the condom and returns again, fumbling through Peter's coat pockets for a cloth and cleaning the both of them up. It's a strange reversal of their usual roles, the burden of care resting on Juno's shoulders. "Juno, darling," he manages, while Juno wipes the stain of the dust from Peter's cheeks, brushes the red tint from his mouth. "I don't know how I'd ever manage without you." 

He laughs. "Seems like you do fine on your own most days."

"Yes, love, but with you I don't _have_ to."

Juno stills, and meets his eye with an unreadable expression on his face. "You're an idiot," he breathes, after a moment. "Did I mention that already?"

"Only twice since this morning," Peter tells him, happily. "If it helps, this has never happened to me before today." He moves to sit up, purses his lips and corrects himself. "This has only happened to me once before." 

Juno sits back on his heels and stares, then drags Peter into a kiss with an exasperated grunt, strong hands pulling at his collar. "You pull a stunt like that on me again and I might be forced to make an honest man out of you, Nureyev." 

Peter feels the corners of his mouth twitch with the threat of a smile, and presses his lips to Juno's again. "Perish the thought," he murmurs.

**Author's Note:**

> if u dont know im on tumblr & twitter also as @wastrelwoods! a fun and cool fact about me is that i think 'fuck dust' is an appropriate synonym for 'sex pollen' and have to constantly stop myself from using it!


End file.
